


Boiling Over

by ode_to_an_inkwell



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Ficlet, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 08:09:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14911634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ode_to_an_inkwell/pseuds/ode_to_an_inkwell
Summary: When Jon learns the truth of his heritage, he seeks out the one person who can bring him comfort. The loss of his identity has one consolation--that Sansa isn't his sister.





	Boiling Over

**Author's Note:**

> I'm aware that this exact scene would never happen on the show, but the desire to see it unfold this way was too strong. This point *** would make an amazing cliffhanger, imo. The GA would be confused to see Sansa's face, but Jonsas would know it's about to go down. Hope you enjoy!

“I’m not a…” He almost said Stark, but he’d never been a Stark, had he? “He wasn’t my father?”

“No,” Bran said in a hollow manner which echoed the feeling in Jon’s chest. “You are the legitimate son of Rhaegar Targaryen. You’re the true heir to the Iron Throne.”

He scoffed. “I don’t care about that.”

“You aren’t our brother,” Bran continued. Jon looked up at that, the agony in his face giving way to something else. Bran glanced away into the roaring hearth. “I’ve already seen what happens next. Go.”

He wasn’t sure where he was meant to go, but Jon rose to his feet. It felt as though he stood on legs of lumber, but he managed a few steps. He fumbled with the door and clung to the numbness permeating through his mind. It didn’t matter. There was only one place he could go, one person to whom he could flee. In minutes he found himself outside her chambers and blinked in surprise. What could he say to her? He had half a mind to go to the crypts and sulk in solitude, but his hand knocked before he could turn away.

Sansa opened the door.

***

“Jon? It’s late.”

He paused to breathe in her scent. “I need to speak with you.”

She stepped aside, crossing her arms over her evening robe. He walked past her and stared out her window, trying to find words. Only propriety kept him from falling apart. She would be hurt if he left with no explanation.

“Care for a drink? I only have wine, but--”

“No.”

The silence rolled on. Eventually, he looked over at her, and she stared down into her cup stiffly. He sighed and poured one for himself. Still, no words came to him, so he drank deeply. She set her cup aside and crossed the room toward him.

“You’re acting strangely. What is it?”

“Just my worst fears realized,” Jon said sullenly.

She paled. “The Night King?”

“No, gods no. I’m sorry.” His body turned toward hers, but his eyes stuck to the floor. “I don’t know how to explain. All my life I was afraid that I would never belong here. It’s why I went to the Wall. I never felt like a true Stark, and now--”

“But you are--”

“I’m not!” The words burst from his chest. His gaze crawled up her thick robe and rested upon the copper braid draped over her shoulder. “My real father was Rhaegar Targaryen. I’ve never been a Stark.”

He chanced a glance at her face, but Sansa quickly turned away. He followed her to the hearth where she braced herself against the mantle. He wished she would look at him; he would give anything to know her thoughts. Jon pressed his hand to space between her shoulder-blades. 

“Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

She looked over at him in a daze. “You’re saying that you’re not my brother.” 

Something in his expression cracked, and any pretense he had with himself was finished. She might hate him for this, but he knew that no action would cause Sansa to betray him. There was only one comfort in the world, and it was the soft curve of her cheek in his palm as he mindlessly leaned in to capture her sweet mouth with his own. He didn’t know if it was because of his desperation, like that of a wounded animal, but she let him. And for an instant, he was seized by a force so powerful that it splintered his bones with joy. Jon knotted his fingers through her braid and caught at her waist, daring to release the passion percolating inside of him. It was madness, but so was the rest of his existence. Sansa broke the spell to rub her cheek into his, and their arms ached with the effort of compressing two bodies into one.

“I’m sorry Jon,” she panted. “This morning I wished that you weren’t my brother. I wanted you to hold me like this. I wanted it so badly that I wished this upon you.”

“Quiet, lovely girl,” he cooed. “Nothing you’ve done has caused this.”

“I’m sorry all the same. Just because you aren’t my brother doesn’t mean you aren’t a Stark.”

He released her then, leaned away so he could look at her. Once truths began to surface they all seemed to boil over. “I love you, Sansa. Beyond sense, beyond my honor.” Jon tucked her hair behind her ear, his eyes shining. “I am yours.”

An unbearable and magnificent weight pressed down on Sansa’s chest, threatening to cave her sternum in. She realized with some amazement that she could bear the weight. She caught his hand and pressed it to her cheek once more.

“You have me. All of me.”

Jon felt wicked. He knew his entire life that he would never be worthy of a highborn lady. He didn’t feel worthy of Sansa now, his entire past consumed with lies. But he had her. Miraculously, yet inevitably. He pulled her close and pressed his forehead to hers before seizing her mouth again. This kiss was warm, earnest. Their blooming love would never see the decay of autumn.


End file.
